


In leaves no step had trodden black.

by exbex



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-03 00:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10955853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: Year 1 and Year 2, re-imagined.





	In leaves no step had trodden black.

**Author's Note:**

> I read this: http://comicsalliance.com/ngozi-ukazu-check-please-interview/ and wondered immediately "What if Bitty and Jack had a bit of a personality swap, with Jack being gregarious and Bitty being more reserved? What would be different?" and as I set about answering the question (with plenty of projection thrown in, of course) I ended up with an Eric Bittle who didn't have a hockey team near him in Madison, so he took up cross country and track instead, and went to Samwell on a track scholarship, and writes a blog instead of recording a vlog, and there are some other subtle changes in the way the characters interact, but, (spoiler alert) Bitty still wins.

_I think the best thing about baking is the relative lack of mystery. It takes practice, sure, but eventually I tend to get the results I’m looking for. It’s the same way with figure skating. And running._

_Social niceties, on the other hand…y’all, I’ve lived in the South my whole life, so I’ve had plenty of practice, and most of the time, I’ve got it down. But I’m about to go meet my new team for the first time and I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs._

_I just hope the Yankees like pecan pie, because the student kitchens are open._

_**_

_Alright, so it’s been a few weeks already and things are going pretty smoothly for your’s truly so far here on one of the many liberal arts college campuses in the northeastern United States. My teammates are all pretty decent, and they like my pies. Interestingly enough, I’ve been hanging out with some of the hockey bros. Now if you’re a long time reader of this blog, you know that I talk about hockey almost as much as I talk about baking, and that I would have traded in my figure skates for hockey skates if there’d been a team where I lived in Georgia (and if playing hockey didn’t mean getting slammed into the boards by guys twice my size). Anyway, I met two of the hockey bros at the Student Athletes and Allies meetings (I’m happy to report that the name refers to athletes who are allies and lgbt folks who are athletes, not just jocks and their friends), and as a result of our acquaintanceship I’ve managed to gain access to a kitchen that offers 24-hour access. Granted, it’s in what might as well be a goddamn frat house, but beggars can’t be choosers I guess._

“You know what I like about you Bitty?” 

Eric is pretty sure that Shitty is coming down off of a high, which would explain both the slightly dreamy look and the way he’s eyeing the cooling pie hungrily.

“Free pie?” Eric ventures.

“Well, yes. But also? You’re a dude from the South but you’re not a bigoted dickfaced cockhole. Good for you.”

Eric resists retorting with ‘Well, you’re from New England but you’re not a pretentious asshole. Good for you, Shitty.’ 

“Thanks Shitty,” he replies instead, and then immediately finds himself wondering how one college hockey team managed to have so many lookers on its roster, as a tall, dark-haired Adonis immediately strolls into the kitchen.

“Jack Zimmermann, you fucking beaut,” Shitty chimes as he swivels in his chair. “Jack, this fucking beaut right here is Bitty, world-class baker and cross country phenom. Bitty, this tall drink of water is Jack Zimmermann, our esteemed captain.”

Eric knows exactly who Jack Zimmermann is, and it’s only his upbringing that shakes him from his reverie enough to remind him of his manners. “Eric Bittle,” he manages as he offers a hand to shake.

Jack gives him a blinding smile as he shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’ve seen you running, I think. I take it you’re a freshman?”  
“Yeah, I uh-I hope it’s okay, that I bake here.”

“Of course. Just try not to leave too many baked goods behind, eh? The way to the boys’ hearts is through their stomachs, but can’t have them slowing down on the ice.” Jack elbows Shitty in the side at this, which leads to some semblance of a war cry from Shitty and a scuffle on the floor of the kitchen that has Eric both amused and bemused. He diligently ignores the way his stomach does a bit of a rollercoaster at the way Jack’s laugh sounds nothing less than delighted, as if he can’t believe his own good fortune.

 _Maybe this is what it’s like,_ Eric thinks, _to not feel like a square peg in round hole._  
**

_4 AM is way too early to be awake on a Sunday. Actually, it’s too early to be awake on any day. Actually, I’m not even sure 4 AM exists. For all I know it could be a vicious rumor. But trying to schedule ice time on my campus is a tricky endeavor (and y’all know I love some of those hockey bros, but there’s no way I’m going near the ice when they’ve got practice going). So tomorrow, I’m going to head to the rink here on campus and do some footwork, maybe even get a jump or two in. I don’t miss early morning Soviet calisthenics, but I do miss figure skating._

Eric doesn’t take any music with him, just a pair of figure skates that are perfectly broken in. Faber is empty and the sun is rising and there’s something soothing about carving figure eights into the ice alone, as if the world, asleep and harmless, can let him be who he wants to be.

He wishes it could be enough.

He’s lost track of time until he comes out of a spin to see Jack staring at him, wide-eyed, near the boards. “How long have you been standing there?” he asks at the same time that Jack blurts “You’re really good. I didn’t know you figure-skated.” It probably should be funny. Instead it’s just painfully awkward, nearly as awkward as the ensuing silence.

“I….wasn’t trying to be in your way,” Eric finally begins.

“Oh. No, not at all.” Jack shakes his head. “I just came to practice shooting. I…I had no idea. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Eric gives a wry smile. “Not a lot of skating rinks in Georgia.”

“Well, you never said you even knew how to skate at all.” Jack pauses. “You competed, right? I mean, you’re really good.” He laughs. “I’m not exactly a figure skating aficionado or anything, but…”

Jack’s sincerity leaves Eric emboldened. “Yeah. State champion. Went all the way to Southern Junior Regionals in 2010. But we moved when my dad got the head football coach position in Madison and it was too far away to keep training. So it was cross country and track. Worked out. I mean, got me out of Georgia, eventually.” Eric has to resist the urge to bite his lip. Jack does not strike him as a person who would go blabbing someone’s secrets all over the place, but it still feels as if he’s revealed too much.

If Jack finds Eric’s stream of verbosity weird, he doesn’t comment. Instead he just skates a little closer. “Hey, you’re pretty fast on the ice too. You want to do some suicides with me?”

Eric laughs. “You may have noticed that I don’t have hockey skates on.”

“C’mon Bittle; hockey has been using figure skaters to coach players since the 70s.”

Eric raises his eyebrows. “You’re wanting me to coach you?”

“I just want to see if I can beat you on the ice. I’d race you on foot, but I have a feeling I know what that outcome would be.”

“Alright, Mr. Hockey. I guess if you need a little ego-boost.” Eric winces inwardly, chirping being a new and foreign concept to him.

But Jack laughs. “A boost or maybe a beating.”

“Well, if you put it that way…” Eric is skating away before Jack has even pushed off from the boards. 

Jack is a great skater. Hockey players don’t get terribly far if they aren’t. But Eric’s years of training in the essentials give him just a bit of an edge, even if he is a little rusty. They’re practically neck and neck, Eric can even see it coming out of the corner of his eye…  
Jack must catch him. It’s just a second, Eric thinks, that he’d blacked out.

“Bittle. Bittle. Bitty. Fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come at you like that, that was stupid. I wasn’t going to knock you down, I was just…Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Eric can’t formulate a real response. He steadies his breathing and glides toward a bench. Jack has procured some Gatorade from somewhere, and the slight tremors in Eric’s hands stop as he starts taking slow sips. Jack’s eyes look worried, but he doesn’t ask for an explanation.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” Eric manages, and it sounds like the biggest understatement ever, even to his own ears.

“I’m sorry Bittle. I got all caught up in….I didn’t think.”

“S’okay.” The ensuing silence is awkward, but Eric presses his lips together, as if an explanation, stumbling, will start to escape at any moment. 

“There’s a youth hockey tournament today,” Jack finally says. “So we need to be out of here by seven. We should probably, euh, wrap things up.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Eric feels steady now, enough to stand and flash a smile that he hopes is more reassuring than shaky.

“Do you want to get coffee? Maybe a bite?” It’s almost funny, the way Jack blurts it out. Eric almost suggests going to the Haus and making breakfast instead, but Jack is looking uncharacteristically unsteady, and Eric realizes that he’s starving, tired, and wanting someone to set food and caffeine in front of him for once.

“Sure.” And Jack looks so relieved Eric can’t help but smile for real this time.

**

“Now we know it’s tradition for your roommates to pick your date for Winter Screw, Bitty, but Holster and I see it as our duty to make sure your first Screw is the swawsomest highlight of your frog year. So what’s your type?”

Eric takes a circuitous route to meeting Ransom’s eyes. He catches a few other students in the library rolling their eyes at Ransom and Holster’s enthusiasm and feels a pang of sympathy. Truth be told, if he hadn’t been adopted by the hockey team and seen their decidedly softer side, he might be tempted to transfer schools.

“I don’t have a type, Rans.”

“Yeah, that’s what Jack said, but turns out that that’s just code for I’m the Pickiest Man Alive. But we found him a date last year, and if that can happen, we’ll find someone for our favorite Frog.”

Eric suppresses a sigh. “Athletic,” he manages. “Um…brunette, I guess.”

“Tall, dark, and handsome,” Holster crows. 

“Rowing crew,” Ransom chimes in not half a second later.

“Yeah! There’s a 6’7” guy who’s totally into short dudes!”

 _Maybe this should be the opposite of a problem,_ Eric muses. _But somehow I’m not feeling optimistic._  
**

_I am both happy and unhappy to report that my first college dance was just as disappointing as my first middle school dance and my first high school dance. Happy because being right is a sweet, sweet feeling. Unhappy because, well, pleasant surprises are always nice._

“Bittle? What are you doing? You’ll catch a cold out here.”

“Oh! Jack, I...I’m going back in. I just needed some fresh air.” Eric sighed. “Or, actually, my date threw up on my shoes and then ditched me.” 

“I’ll walk you back. I’m leaving now anyway. C’mon.”

“What about your date?”

“She left early; she has a match in the morning.”

Eric stands to his feet, a bit stiffly, and falls into step beside Jack.

“You know, I really don’t know what I was expecting.”

“From screw?” Jack was removing his jacket and draping it around Eric’s shoulders.

“Yeah. Rans and Holster said it was the highlight of their frog year.”

“They would say that.” Jack chuckled. “They really do mean well, Bittle.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“They just like to look out for you. We all do.” Jack suddenly slows, as if there’s a hitch in his thinking. When Eric looks at him, he’s flushed.  
“Jack, are you feeling okay?”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you can’t take care of yourself.”

“Oh.” Eric shrugs. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s nice to hang out with a bunch of jocks who don’t lock me in a supply closet.” He clamps his mouth shut, as if he can net the words and swallow them.

The silence seems to last for a mile, even though Eric can count the steps before Jack clears his throat. 

“Do you want to come back to the Haus for a bit? Play some Mario Kart or something?”

Eric hesitated. “Well…”

“I can just walk back to your dorm with you if you want me to…”

Eric’s phone suddenly vibrates with a text message. It’s rude to look at it, probably, but he doesn’t have an answer to Jack’s question.

_Hey Bitty, I’m out of town tonight, due to narrative convenience, so feel free to crash in my room if you want to._

Johnson’s offer seems strange, even for him, but Eric is exhausted, and it occurs to him just how much of a toll an initial first university semester one thousand miles from home can take.

“Uh, that’s Johnson. Says he’s out of town and I can crash in his room if I want.”

“Typical Johnson.” Jack’s easy smile and demeanor have returned, suddenly. “He has a few Winter Screws under his belt. And I’m sure he knows how you feel about the couch.”

Eric can’t help but smile, relieved that the easy camaraderie has returned. “Jack, that thing is a health hazard if I’ve ever seen one. I’m not even sure that the color is actually green….”

**

_So it’s the weekend of State Track, and my parents decided to surprise me by making the seven hour trip from Madison to Atlanta to Boston to here. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m happy they came, but my mother can be a bit much when she gets excited about things. My father, on the other hand, is a bit of a closed book. Sometimes they really complement each other well. Other times…well, let’s just say that the whole “opposites attract” thing often leaves me wondering…  
But anyway, I put in a respectable performance. Nothing too spectacular, but nothing to sneeze at either._

“You did good out there, Junior.”

The flush on Eric’s face is only partly attributable to the fact that he’s only finished sprinting a few minutes ago. “Thanks Coach,” he breathes.

“Oh Dicky, you were so great! You should’ve seen me in the stands all emotional. Your father actually stopped grinning for a few seconds to ask me if I was okay.”

Coach chuckled. “Your mother got a little excited there.”

“Thanks. I’m just happy I finished as well as I did. I should really go shower up now.”

“Bitty! Bits, you beaut, you were swawesome out there!”

Eric turns, surprised to see Jack trailed closely by Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster. “Y’all, I…oh, where are my manners? Coach, Mother, these are my friends-the ones from the hockey team. Jack, Larissa, Adam, Justin, and, er…”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Bittle, Mrs. Bittle.” Jack smiles and extends his hand.

Eric breathes a sigh of relief that his boisterous hockey bro friends, led by their Captain, manage to charm his parents even as they make the tips of his ears red from their effusive compliments. 

“Such nice boys,” Suzanne muses hours later as she nurses a cup of tea.

“My team? Yeah, they’re nice, Momma.”

“Well, yes Dicky, but I mean Adam and Justin and Jack and…Mr. Crappy. And that Larissa is just lovely.”

Eric is lounging on the second double-bed in his parent’s hotel room. He blinks sleepily and allows a small smile. “Oh. Yes ma’am, they’re good friends.”

“How’d you fall in with the hockey team Junior? Sounds like you spend more time with them than with the other runners.”

Eric carefully schools his expression and meets his father’s eyes. But the expression on Coach’s face is relaxed and open, mildly curious instead of confused or bewildered. “I had a class with Justin in the fall.”

“Such handsome young men,” Suzanne says casually. “Especially that Jack. Don’t you think he looks just like his father?”

Eric feels the tips of his ears prickle with heat. “Mother, please do not tell me you googled Jack.”

Coach chuckles. “Your mother had a poster of Bob Zimmermann when she young. Now she didn’t know what sport he actually played…”

“Now you stop it,” Suzanne retorts. “It was Connie who had all his little cards even though she’d never been to a game. He was like Tim Tebow and the Jonas brothers rolled into one…”

Eric groans and presses his face into a pillow, his grimace turning into a smile that he’s not entirely sure he could explain.

**

_I am happy to report that, although I have been an athlete most of my life and I’m an NCAA athlete to boot, hazing has always just been a word and an abstract concept. (The whole getting locked in a closet overnight by the football team in seventh grade was not so much hazing. More like a message. That message being, “If this were an island, we’d put you in a boat and shove it out to sea.”) This would apparently not be my reality if I were a member of the hockey team here. As you can probably infer, I am, in spite of my love for hockey and my hockey friends’ reassurances that their own hazing ritual is mild salsa, infinitely grateful that I’m on the cross and track teams.  
From the looks that were on the faces of the freshman members of the hockey teams (and a certain hockey team Captain), they were pretty grateful that there was some pie waiting for them the other night. They were a little surprised, but y’all know that I am a firm believer in always making time for some Southern hospitality. _

“You really got all the way to your senior year without getting hazed, huh?”

Jack had stopped shivering over an hour ago, but he’s still sipping hot cocoa and carefully pressing his fork to his plate, as if he can pick up every stray crumb. “Yeah,” he chuckles. “Shitty said I had to do it this year though.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, he may have done some begging. And some semi-aggressive cuddling.”

Eric laughs. “Shitty is very comfortable with physical affection.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“I have an appreciation for all forms of affection expression. Baking pies. Eating pies. Cuddling.”

Eric rolls his eyes, because Jack looks so enormously pleased with himself. “Baking is about stress relief. And procrastinating.”

“Whatever you say Bits.”

Eric feels the flush crawling up his neck, and he’s saved only by Holster strolling into the kitchen. “Yo Bits, Ransom and me’ll walk you back to your dorm room, or you can bunk in with Rans. He’d appreciate it because the ghosts in the attic get a little handsy with him. “

“There are no such things as ghosts. Ghosts do not exist.” The retort comes from somewhere in the Haus. A pause, and then, “I’m always  
up for a cuddle though.”

In the ensuing chirping that seems to come from all corners of the Haus, Eric forgets about the conversation with Jack.

**

“Kiddo! Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

Eric feels shaken, slightly sick to his stomach, as if he’s over-indulged at a fish fry. Before he can answer, the woman is helping him to his feet, and there’s Jack standing next to her.

“George, this is my friend Eric Bittle. I’d have invited him to run with us but he’s a track star and I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Bittle, this is Georgia Martin. She’s an assistant GM for the Falconers.”

“I should really be more careful! I hope I didn’t interrupt any business.”

“Kid, you’re fine! We do real business with agents around. I’ve only been convincing Jack to come meet my team for the last mile. And I told him if I couldn’t keep up he could stop taking my calls.”

“Well, we should get going and let Bittle get to class. See you later Bittle. Heads up, alright? Even off the course.”

**

The Providence Falconers are one of the fourteen NHL teams that has never won a Stanley Cup. Eric is imagining Jack signing with them, trying to decipher his possible reasons. A chance to shine, perhaps….maybe become the star by turning around a team that’s been struggling. Eric frowns as he kneads the dough. Jack holds his cards close to his chest, as much as he’s gregarious with his friends and the media alike. There’s something else at play here. 

Eric shakes his head and kneads a little more intently. If there’s anyone who doesn’t need help figuring his future out, it’s Jack.

**

_So let me start this entry off with a tip: Never suggest that someone with an English accent buy an English muffin; if they laugh it’s probably because they’re a very nice person._ And, a question: What do you get a high school football coach for Christmas? (And don’t say “a son who plays football” because that ship sailed when I traded my peewee football pads for figure skates).  
As far as what I would like Santa to bring me….normally I at least try to pretend I’m not superficial, but after hanging out with these bros, a hockey butt would be nice.  
I know that this is the most random update, but finals are upon us, and this is not even the worst of my procrastination, as I have had a date that has resulted in my notes containing a Venn diagram comparing Rugby to American football (and those two words together ought to be a redundancy), and another page of notes containing hockey plays, as a certain hockey team captain has decided that his form of procrastination involves pestering chirping me. (Seriously, when I was complaining about needing more time to study, he just looked at him with this grin on his face and said “seventeen.” And then to clarify: “You baked seventeen pies in September.” First of all, that’s probably an underestimation. Second, pretty sure he had slices from all seventeen pies. Come to think of it, he probably spent almost as much time chirping me this semester as I’ve spent baking. The things I have to put up with….)  
Two of my other friends are planning this year’s epic end-of-semester house party/kegster. They actually have a spreadsheet and everything. I don’t know what’s in the aforementioned spreadsheet, but its very existence scares me. 

**

“A wild Eric Bittle appears.”

Eric can’t help but smile at the metaphor, because it seems apt. Even off the track or the course he’s often nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to spring away. The SMH Haus parties are no exception, no matter how affable their hosts always are.

Eric has just a moment, the one in which he’s trying to formulate a response, to register the fact that his feet seem to be planting themselves.

“I figured you’d be hiding away in your room. Looks like we have something of a Christmas miracle on our hands, eh?” Jack’s smile is easy, the way he’s leaning against the wall, cup in hand, relaxed, and his teasing tone is not unkind.

“Well, seems something always goes wrong during these parties. And it looks like Ransom and Holster invited half the colleges in Boston.”  
Jack laughs. “You’re not wrong. Last time we had one of these, Shitty had a guy get sick in his room. You ever see that hole in the door to his room? A football player kicked it in during last Epic Kegster.”

Eric can feel his eyebrows shifting up toward his hairline. “No.”

“Yeah. I think he or his buddy threw up in there? I had to drag ‘em both outta the Haus.”

“All by yourself?”

“Well, yeah. And then a bunch of them turned up out of nowhere! Musta been their whole o-line. Big guys, eh? I wasn’t even thinking when I turned the fire extinguisher on them, but it freaked ‘em out enough that they left with the drunk guy.”

Eric can’t help but be amused at Jack’s animated story-telling. If the NHL doesn’t work out, maybe he could teach, he thinks. “Sounds terrifying.”

“It wasn’t that bad. But that party took up two pages of The Swallow.”

Eric laughs. “You mind if I put that story in my blog?”

“Pas de tout. Hey, if you have your phone on you, we could take a selfie together. You could put that on your blog too.”

“Yeah right.”

“I’m serious. I can see the title now. ‘Bitty’s First Big Kegster.’ Lots of hits.”

“Looks like some things never change, huh?”

Eric blinks and wonders at the surreallity that has become of his life. Because the smirk that accompanies the quip is on the face of none other than the man who comes in only second to Sidney Crosby as far as hockey.

“Kent, hey. Um…what are you…how are you?”

With Jack’s attention fully absorbed by Kent Parson and the mass of college partiers suddenly seeming to move in one direction, Eric feels his heartrate quicken. _And that’s my cue to leave._

Among the things that Eric could not have predicted he’d come to love are a blast of cold December air and the sound of one B. Shitty Knight hawking tub juice as if he’s the product of a Bostonian professor and a Southern auctioneer.

“Hey Bits, you trying to escape the selfie mill that Kent Parson started?”

“Something like that,” Eric replies in lieu of a relieved sigh. “When I got into Samwell, I never imagined I’d be rubbing elbows with NHL  
royalty.”

Shitty furrowed his eyebrows. “Well…I wouldn’t have guessed that Parson would show up here again.”

Eric waits, unsure if Shitty’s admission is an invitation to ask questions or not. As it is, he doesn’t have to endure an awkward silence for long.

“Listen Bits, you should know…and I know it doesn’t seem like it to talk to Jack, because, well, he’s a friendly guy. And a really good guy. But he can get kind of jealous. Like, the last time Parson stopped by, yeah it was after he won a fucking Stanley Cup, but it’s not like he had his Calder under his arm…but Jack acted weird as fuck. And Parson’s a pretty modest bro, y’know? It kind of freaked me out. But that’s between you and me, alright.”

“Yeah, of course, Shitty.” Eric breathes in, lets it out slowly. “Think I’m gonna head back in.”

“Sure Bits. And lay off that fucking tub juice. It’s magically malicious.”

_The thing about running, even figure skating, is that the course, or the program, is set. Diversion usually leads to a negative outcome. There’s a little more room with baking; tweaks to a recipe can mean improvement. So a risk can pay off. And if the risk doesn’t pay off, well, I’m out a few bucks at worst.  
Wouldn’t it be nice if life were more like baking? If the worst thing that could happen due to a little risk was to be out a few bucks? _

He really shouldn’t be heading up the stairs of a house that he doesn’t even live in, to check on someone who doesn’t need checking up on, Eric tells himself. He’s imagining the look of hesitation he’d seen on Jack’s face. He really should go back downstairs as soon as he hears the conversation. Instead, he ducks into the bathroom that’s situated between Shitty’s room and Jack’s room.

_Just admit it, you’re eavesdropping. You’ve had some tub juice, you should really just go back to your room and start putting together that blog post about Yule logs you’ve been meaning to get to._

“…you have no clue?”

“I mean, it could be Montreal, it could be L.A. Okay? I don’t know.”

“What about Las Vegas?”

“I…I don’t know, okay?”

“Look, Zimms, just fucking stop thinking for once and listen to me. I’ll tell the GMs you’re on board and they can free up cap space…”

“Kenny. You can’t just come to my school, corner me in my room, and expect me to do whatever you want.”

“Fuck Jack. Look, you’re going to make me say it? I miss you, okay? I miss you.”

“You always say that.”

“Jack…it’s just been really hard, okay? When I thought there’d be at least one other guy in my situation….”

“Kent, I…I told you; I have to do this and I have to do it on my own. I can’t just have it handed to me, especially not after everything that happened. Try to understand.”

The silence is long, and Eric is reminded of moments when a radio loses signal, or a plane flies overhead, and his anxiety-prone side of his brain likes to torture the other side with thoughts of world war.

“Yeah…it was stupid to come. I’m sorry.”

“Kenny….”

“I have curfew. Call me if you reconsider or whatever. But good luck with the Falconers. I’m sure that’ll make your dad proud.”

**

_I miss figure skating. The trouble is, I think sometimes I miss it for the wrong reasons. When I’m skating, it’s as if the world’s gone quiet. I’m not thinking about anything but the next jump or spin or spiral or next bit of footwork. Even once I’ve got the program down, my mind’s not racing. I didn’t have to skate until I dropped to shut my brain up. I love running. I think I love it as much as skating. But it doesn’t let me escape my demons. I’m trying real hard to see that as a positive. An opportunity._

“That smells amazing.”

Eric doesn’t startle at the voice; he had heard the creak of the Haus front door and a single set of footsteps. Jack emerges into the kitchen, cheeks reddened from the cold.

“New recipe. Maple-sugar crusted apple.”

Jack’s eyes light up. “I guess it’s a good thing I put in an extra couple of miles.”

Eric grins and rolls his eyes. “There’s a very nice indoor track, you know.”

Jack laughs as he pulls a chair out and sits down. “One of these mornings, we’ll go running together. See how long you last.”

“Pretty sure I could still leave you in the dust,” Eric chirps.

“Care to put that to the test? On the ice, I mean. We’re going to play shinny on the pond tomorrow.”

Eric blinks. “Skate around in the freezing cold, trying to avoid getting pummeled by guys twice my size? Sounds horrible.”

Jack gives him an appraising look, then stands, making his way over to the cupboard, where he pulls out mugs and plates and tins. “You’d be good at hockey, I reckon.”

Eric rolls his eyes. “If that was your attempt at a southern accent, I’d advise you to work on your impressions.”

Jack grins. “Still, you’re a great skater and a great athlete. And I’d bet you’re a natural at puck-handling.”

It’s only the fact that Eric feels a flush creeping up the back of his neck that makes him lose himself. “It’s the checking. I mean, there wasn’t a hockey team close to me in Georgia, but it’s the checking. I can’t….I can’t do contact sports.” The pleasure he’d felt at Jack’s compliment disappears as quickly as it’d appeared. Now Eric feels inexplicably angry. 

“There was a time, after my overdose, that I thought I was done with hockey forever.”

Eric forces himself to meet Jack’s eyes, but Jack isn’t really looking at him. He seems far away. “It was accidental. I’d been abusing my anti-anxiety meds. I couldn’t handle all that pressure. And for a year….I didn’t think I’d ever figure out a way to do it. To have my mental health and hockey both.”

“You did though. Figure it out.” Eric’s anger has dissipated. 

Jack focuses his gaze. “Everyone thinks that this, being here at Samwell, is a kind of stepping stone. The thing is….I hadn’t decided that I was going to try to play in the NHL until the end of my sophomore year.” He bites his lower lip, and all of a sudden he doesn’t look like the self-assured, gregarious wunderkind. “Playing here reminded me of what it’s like to play for a team, and not-not because it’s expected, I guess.” He looks down for a moment, then moves away from the counter. Eric thinks he’s going to leave the room, but he makes his way over to the electric kettle on the counter. “Cocoa, coffee or tea to go with the pie?”

Eric blinks. “Well, if we’re talkin’ cocoa, we can do better than Swiss Miss…”

**

The pond really is beautiful frozen over. Somehow, it’s the most graceful jump he’s landed since quitting figure skating (though Eric suspects that the boys’ cheers wouldn’t be any less enthusiastic if he’d two-footed the landing).

**

“That’s rough.” Ryan’s sigh is sincere. Eric idly thinks that he’s glad that he was chosen as Captain of the track team the previous spring. 

It’s a strange sensation as he focuses on the downtrodden faces of the hockey team; he feels like a member of the group at the same time he feels like an outsider looking in. He wishes intensely to be on the ice with them, to follow them into the locker room, to absorb some of their pain, as if to share the burden of it, if not to lessen it.

The look on Jack’s face can only be described as defeated. _Does he know, Eric wonders, that they want to hold him up as much as he wants to hold them up?_

**

“I hate this,” Eric groans as he pulls his knees to his chest and curls his arm around them. “This isn’t fun. Lardo said that if you don’t remember Spring C, you’re not having fun. But what’s the point of having fun if you don’t remember it?” A pause, then, “I feel like shit right now. If I feel this bad, then how bad is the hangover going to be?”

Jack’s chuckle is sympathetic. “Just try to sip this water, okay?”

“You’re so nice Jack. What am I going to do without you next year? You and Shitty? I know Rans and Holster will be here, and the Frogs, but I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you too,” Jack whispers.

Eric wakes up in Shitty’s bed, head pounding, the next morning. Shitty is nowhere in sight, but when he pads down to the kitchen, Jack is frying breakfast and there’s juice and water waiting for him.

Eric half sits, half falls into a chair. “I’d love you if I didn’t hate everything right now,” he groans.

Jack does him the mercy of not laughing. “Do you remember yesterday at all?”

“If I did I’d probably be smart enough to never drink again.”

Jack does laugh this time, and only laughs harder as Eric glares at him.

**

Eric hasn’t felt such a strong sense of something missing in a long time. It ought to be as simple as the sadness over seeing Jack and Shitty walking across the stage in their graduation robes, but there’s something that he can’t figure out, as if his eye has caught something in his peripheral vision that disappears once he turns his head.

He’s just about to head back to his room when he hears Jack’s voice directly behind him. “Bittle, you’re still here!”

“Oh! Jack! Uh, well, Lardo’s off to lunch with the Knights, and Holster already packed his car for the trip up with Rans…” and there it is, of course. In a world full of pairs, Eric Bittle tends to find himself awkwardly standing alone.

“You’re heading out soon, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I was just about to head back to my room to wait for the airport shuttle. But y’all look ready to go?”

“My mom has a small alum thing first, yeah. Then my parents and George made reservations. Then right on down to Providence.”

“Oh. Well I guess that’s it then.”

There’s a flicker of something indecipherable on Jack’s face. Eric finds himself fidgeting. “I guess the next time I’ll see you you’ll be on TV,  
huh?”

“What? Bittle, I’ll drive down before the season starts. I mean, I hope you’ll still be hanging around the Haus kitchen.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Well, y’all get on outta here before you make me miss my flight.”

“Okay, see you Bittle.”

The walk back to the dorm is the loneliest that Eric’s felt in a long time, an ache blooming in his chest. He looks at the empty walls of his room as he gives a final sweep and feels tired, the sense of loss growing larger, threatening to swallow him up, its origins frustratingly out of reach.

The dorm’s lobby is empty, and there’s only a few people walking by outside. Eric sighs as he sits and idly thumbs through his music. He puts his earbuds in and looks over his recent blog posts. It’s been long enough that he ought to post something, however maudlin, but he’s not sure when he’ll have the emotional energy. As it is, he’ll only have a short flight to try to sort himself out so that he can appear relaxed and happy and avoid his mother’s questions that he doesn’t have the answers to.

_And it’s like I’ve been awakened/every rule I had you breakin/It’s the risk that I’m taking_

_Oh,_ he thinks as every piece suddenly falls into place. He pulls his earbuds out and stands, completely unsure as to what exactly he’s going to do with this fresh epiphany…

Only to see Jack, rumpled and breathless, in front of him.

Eric’s not sure which of them initiates the kiss, just that it’s oddly calm, calm enough that he can catalogue the way Jack’s lips are mostly soft, barely chapped, calm enough that he can register the sounds of the few people who are walking by and chatting outside, calm enough to process the thought that this, unexpected as it is, is exactly what he’s been missing.

The persistent buzz of a vibrating phone doesn’t quite break the spell, but it’s just enough to make Jack pull away. Eric can tell by the feel of Jack’s fingertips trailing along his neck that Jack is doing so reluctantly.

“That’s uh…that’s my phone. I should…I gotta go.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I gotta go, but I’ll text you, okay?”

Words fail him, but with a boldness that Eric isn’t entirely sure he really feels, he pushes off the floor with his toes and leans in for one last kiss.

Jack doesn’t let go of his hand until he steps out of reach. His eyes remain locked on Eric. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay.” And Eric gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He watches Jack disappear from view, realizes his legs are shaking, and sinks into a chair. When his own phone vibrates, he looks down expecting to see an alert from the airport shuttle.

_I wish I’d done that months ago._

Eric’s fingers hover over the screen, his mind at a loss for words. But there’s a fine line between chirping and flirting, after all.

_It’s okay. It’s a marathon, not a sprint._

_Yeah? Pretty sure I just sprinted across campus. ;)_

Eric breathes, and types out a response as fast as his fingers will let him.

_Must have been quite a prize waiting for you ;)_

He frets a little, wondering at how assured the words sound when he doesn’t feel it, but the reply is immediate.

 _There was._ A breath passes, maybe two, before Jack sends another one. _But that’s what happens when you finally figure out what you’re running after._


End file.
